Muddy Heels
by WritersOfTheRain
Summary: What if Anastasia weren't so innocent? What if she were the depraved one - and found herself in circumstances so disgusting and foreign that even she couldn't recognize the innocent girl she once knew? I've introduced original characters, smart and sexy Ellie and the mysterious man in the baseball cap, inspired by Ana and Christian and 50 Shades of Grey.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 _I clutch my leather satchel with a tension that turns my knuckles white; and I haven't even gotten on the plane yet. My anxiety is eclipsed by every well-toned, brown-haired man that enters my peripheral vision - as if I'm watching the final results of the power ball tease their way into place._

 _For what God-awful reason am I sweating in a suffocatingly packed airport scrutinizing traveling businessmen?_

 _I suppose you'd like to know?_

 _Sigh, ok, but get ready. It's a long story and you might not like me very much when it's done._

 _You see, I'm a stripper (see? Told you wouldn't like me). Well, I was a stripper; before I made the fateful decision to pack up and escape to this airport. It may have been an incredibly stupid decision. I'm not really sure yet. Maybe you can tell me?_

 _I know, I know, the age-old story of the innocent stripper with a heart of gold, you've heard it before, right? Well, that's not exactly how this goes. I kind of fell into the exotic dancing lifestyle - quite literally._

I was bagging groceries for a living at the time, working on my post-undergrad writing career, trying to get over the disappointment that was the writers job market. I bumped into a girl in the parking lot after my shift and just about knocked her into a light pole - which is really too bad because I was working a really great line in my head at the time and the incident completely wiped it from my memory.

I helped right her, apologizing profusely and checking for damages. She was kind enough, which was great, because it turned out she worked there too: It was her first day. And it was just her day job - at night she was a dancer. And it was no wonder: she was gorgeous. Penetrating blue eyes, long legs, great figure... Everyone wanted to be friends with her. I guess I was one of the lucky ones, especially considering I nearly knocked her unconscious at our first encounter.

It didn't take me long to notice with curiosity that she seemed to have an awful lot of cash for someone who bagged groceries.

"My night job pays very well," she explained. "You should try it sometime. You've got the body for it."

I almost laughed in her face, but kept my composure. I didn't take her up on her offer; but she didn't leave me alone about it.

"It's really fun," she'd say. "And the money's great. If you want to quit someday to focus on your writing, you're not going to get there bagging groceries."

Let me just point out that I was by no means innocent; I wasn't turning her down for any moral reason. I'd had a few boyfriends and lots of good fucks - some which involved a personal exotic dance performance - I'd just never fancied myself a public performer.

But I guess I'm more amenable to flattery than I thought; three weeks after meeting her, I agreed to meet with her boss.

"Just to talk," I emphasized. "I'm not doing any shaking or gyrating for him, okay? I just want to find out what it's like." She smiled because she knew she had me.

And, well, much to my chagrin, I did like it. It was fun and it did pay extremely well. I eventually quit my job at the grocery store so I could work on my dancing during the day. I justified to myself that my dedication was for research purposes for a future novel but, the truth is, I've always been ambitious. And I wanted to be the best, highest paid stripper at the Men's Den.

Of course, it wasn't all roses. In fact, the day that began the saga that led me here to this awful airport started very, very badly.

I was having a particularly good night with our patrons at first. My g-string was stuffed with 20's and I was enjoying the hooting and hollering as I wrapped my stiletto around the stage pole and swooped into a new move I'd mastered the week before. I was hot. And being hot is great; unless one of _them_ walks in.

See, I'd gotten use to the diversity of the clientele at the club. Some men were needy, some stand-offish and others very vocal. Some were fat, some were skinny, some were gorgeous (we'd stand a little taller and grind a little deeper when they walked in - it was like bridesmaids at a wedding fighting to see who'd catch that luscious bouquet). Moral of the story: there weren't many being drafted as male models. But they were mostly kind and respectful and held a deep admiration for the female form that typically kept their behavior in line. I got used to enjoying the admiring eyes of even the most unattractive men - it's an essential skill for any woman giving a lap dance to a complete stranger.

And then there were the "Pots" as we called them. Ugh. Dancing for them was like unclogging a toilet - no one enjoyed it but someone had to do it. They weren't necessarily called that because they were physically unappealing; we enjoyed dancing for plenty of men who were altogether unattractive. It was more a matter of persona: the glint of greed in their eyes, the way they leered at us while simultaneously licking their lips as if readying themselves for a well-deserved meal. They were scum-bags and normally we'd run the other way. But we had a job to do and as long they didn't break the rules, the boss couldn't kick them out.

The Pot that walked in on this particular night was, well, large (and not in the good places). The rolls that cascaded down his body were accented with the glint of hot sweat trailing from his thick and stocky neck. He was such an ass. We usually held out hope that he'd do something inappropriate from the get-go so we could kick him out. He got booted for a month once - it was like Mardi Gras every day.

I'd been there six months and had managed to use my greenness to avoid patronizing him every time he'd come, but my time had run out. The girls were all too happy to pawn me off on him; at least they were kind enough to grant me looks of pity in their wake.

"Ellie!" Hissed a voice. It was Mia - the friend I mentioned earlier who got me into this mess of a business. I glared at her.

"What?" I snapped.

" The first time is always the worst, but it gets better after that. Just close your eyes and pretend it's Brad Pitt. If you concentrate really hard, it doesn't seem so bad."

My anxiety elevated. I really, really didn't want to do this. Mia took my hand tenderly then handed me off to the Pot in a regretful fashion.

"Hey baby," he said, his eyes aglow with lust. "You're a pretty little one. I bet you've been waiting on that luscious ass all day for a guy like me."

He laughed - a deep, guttural laugh, clearly satiated by my discomfort. I swallowed and closed my eyes, drumming up images of Brad Pitt while feigning a smile. I could do this. Yeah, I could. As long as he didn't -

"I think I'd like a special treat tonight, Miss Titty." Ugh, he always called us that. "Show me to the Mud Room."

 _Ah, fuck._

The blood drained from my face. It was worse than I thought. I considered running. Running away and never coming back. I was sure I could get my job at the grocery store back. But remember what I mentioned before about being ambitious? Well, as sickening as it was, I didn't want to be weak. I had committed to this job and I was going to do a damn good job of it. I gingerly took his hand and let him to a semi-private room at the back of the club. It was hidden behind a faux door and reserved for those with serious stacks of cash.

 _At least I'll make a killing tonight_ , I thought.

The Mud Room was, well, not strictly legal. From the law's perspective it was borderline prostitution, but since no sex was technically had in the room, it was difficult to get busted for it. Still, it was something kept under the rug. I actually enjoyed it under normal circumstances.

 _Um, what? Why, you ask?_

Well, the Mud Room was a room dedicated to the pleasure of the stripper. ( _Don't ask me why it's called the 'Mud Room" – I can only assumed it's meant to be derogatory_ ). On an off-day it was torturous, but if your libido was active, it was way better than dancing to a room full of hard-ons. A lot of the girls liked it because it was a chance to enjoy a little pleasure after spending hours focusing on the pleasure of others.

Anyways, the goal of the Mud Room was to give your stripper an orgasm. The only rules? There was to be no removal of the stripper's bottoms (toplessness was fair game), the stripper was to do as commanded by the patron (within reason), and, shockingly, the stripper was not allowed to touch the patron - that included sitting on him, kissing him (well that rule was pretty standard across the board), or any other kind of touching. It was, however, the only room where the patron was allowed to touch the stripper - softly and gently. The room was monitored by two bouncers, ready to jump in at any indication of discomfort from one of us. If things got rough, it was taken care of in an instant. And it happened on occasion. But the activity stayed off the radar because, despite the fact that there were orgasms in the room, the parties weren't touching each other and there was no penetration.

 _Romantic, isn't it? Lol._

So back to my sob story: off to the Mud Room I went with this awful, smelly, pit-stained man. He opened the door for me, copping a feel of my ass as I walked by, and found a chair near the end of a row of about five men, all caught up in the ecstasy of the dimly-lit room.

Given that this room was likely thought up by a horny stripper, it always shocked me how much the men enjoyed it. There was something about the challenge of making a woman roar when she couldn't touch them that made them crazy. I don't think any rooms needed regularly cleaning like this one did...

The Pot sat down, his eyes scaling my body inch by inch. He reached out his enormous hand and touched delicately my purple bottoms, flipping the sequined ties between his fingers. I begrudgingly swirled my hips around, moving in and out of his waiting palm, twisting my fingers nervously in my hair, and awaiting my next instructions.

"Turn around," he commanded. I could have sworn he said "I hate women". I closed my eyes, found my image of Brad Pitt naked on the beach, and complied.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The experience could have been worse. At least that's what I tried to convince myself as the stuffy smell of sweat and cum made my stomach churn. I reminded myself that I was alive, I got through the awful "first time" with a Pot, and I knew I'd be okay in a few hours. But the moment I left that room - the smiling scumbag sliding several hundred dollar bills in my top and stealing a twist of my nipple - I couldn't get to the dressing room fast enough. I did my best not to run through the club, but I had to get out. I burst through the dressing room door, kicked off my stilettos and vomited into the trash. It helped - a lot, actually. I opened a window and sank depleted to the floor by the mirror, waiting for the awful images of his sausage-like hands on me to dissipate.

 _You've been here before, Ellie. The same thing happened when you gave a Pot a Lap dance for the first time. You'll be okay._

My breathing was starting to return to normal when Randy came crashing through the door.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He cried vehemently. I was feeling a bit lightheaded and couldn't do much more than gaze at him in confusion.

"You practically sprinted away from him! Look at you, your fucking g-string is stuffed with 20's – is that not enough for you? Did you want him to think you find him repulsive? He may never come back now!" He was pretty irate, his face a bright tomato-ey red that reminded me of my mother's garden growing up. I looked down at the floor, my mind spinning. I didn't know what to say.

Mia walked in and saved the day.

"Randy, give her a fucking break!" she asserted. Her comfort with confrontation always impressed me. "It was her first time. You remember me the first time I had to give a Pot the special? I was in worse shape than her."

Randy ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair, reluctantly considering her argument, but clearly still reeling from my display of disaffection.

"Just...take care of her, ok? Get her cleaned up. You're both on stage in ten minutes."

Her turned to the door, slamming his hand hard against the frame. "Fucking whores!" He spat. And then he was gone.

Mia walked me to the couch, gave me some peanuts and a glass of water and dabbed my forehead with a cool damp paper towel.

"He's a real dick sometimes," Mia coddled. "He doesn't know what it's like."

"I'm just glad you were here," I murmured. "You're the only one he listens to." Mia's face flushed as she tried to suppress a shy smile.

There had to be something going on between those two. I'd sensed it for a while, but this moment confirmed it - Mia had encountered some pretty embarrassing moments since I'd met her, but I'd never once seen her blush. I cocked an eyebrow hoping to get some details, but she sneered and stomped off to her locker to get ready for the next number. I knew what she was thinking: "I don't need a goddamn man!" _Well, you're right, Mia, none of us do, but that doesn't mean we don't fall for them._

I pulled myself up from the shoddy couch and stumbled to the mini fridge for a diet coke. I popped a Tylenol and let the brown gurgling liquid sooth my throat. I felt better. Maybe even a little proud - _I did it! I made it through one of the most shitty experiences of my life._ And I was starting to feel whole again. Recovery came much quicker this time.

I reached into my locker next to Mia and pulled out my black feathered two-piece. It was one of my sexiest outfits; I always felt like a million bucks in it. As the fog from the Pot began to dissipate, my normal apprehension and excitement about going back on stage started seeping back in.

For someone who never in a million years imagined she'd be a performer, I had learned to love it. I'd always been a pretty girl and I don't think I grew up with any lack of validation or support, but God, I loved being on stage, flooded with colored lights, and moving smoothly to a captivated, adoring crowd. The cheers and the screams were like blood to me. I barely noticed the cash thrown at me and tucked into my g-string; it was the worship I was there for.

Of course, it wasn't all ego boosts and roses; there were downsides. Occasionally we'd get a lonely guy in the crowd who would wait after hours to try to catch us on our way home. That was always awkward. The first time one of them approached me with a bouquet of flowers, I tried to explain to him that what we did was an act - that the looks we shared and the eye candy I provided was just part of the show. But I learned very quickly that this didn't work. It only took one stalker to stage a kidnapping outside the club for me to realize I couldn't give these guys the time of day anymore.

 _God, it's dangerous to be beautiful._

 _Hahaha! Did I seriously just say that?! Aw man, I'm gonna lose you before we even get to the good part._

 _I look at my watch: 6:30. Where is he? Am I in the right place?_

 _It would totally be my luck to get stuck waiting here for hours for some guy who doesn't have the balls to show up. But he wasn't like that...was he?_

 _I'm probably confusing you. Don't worry, it will all make sense later. It looks like I may have all night so let's get back to the story._

I was waiting to go on stage. _Haha, well, 'stage' may be a strong word in this context._ Our club made good money but it's not like we had the funds of a Vegas casino. The 'stage' was more of a slightly elevated platform with 3 levels, 4 poles, and decent lighting, but it was covered in faux-wood laminate flooring. I was quite sure most of our clientele didn't know the difference, but I'm not too innocent to admit that I often closed my eyes and imagined I was dancing on real hardwood - the kind that makes that satisfying click-clack sound under your heels.

 _Someday, maybe._

But so it was. Adorned in my killer two-piece, I followed my fellow dancers out on stage, carrying myself with a swagger that appeared completely unaware of the hell I went through just minutes before. That night, I was one with the pole.

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	3. Chapter 3a

As was standard protocol, we began the evening with introductions. The first few months of my employment I hated this part; I felt awkward on stage and never got the kind of applause the other girls basked in. I'm actually quite surprised I didn't get fired. I was a pretty awful dancer at first; I suspect Mia had something to do with my continuous employment. By four months as a dancer, though, I had improved significantly. I was now one of the top three dancers and Randy knew it (I really enjoyed rubbing that in his face at every opportunity). So naturally, I loved introductions now.

"And now, let's meet one of your top dolls, the sexy and ravishing Nevaeh!"

I know, I know, it doesn't get any cheesier than "heaven" spelled backwards. But hey, it was original, and I'm quite certain it earned me an extra $200 a night.

I mean, what man doesn't secretly hope there are strip teases in heaven?

I sauntered out on stage, starting at the pole with a Frodo, then sliding into an Extended Frodo. It was my signature move, typically worth a few whoops and screams; this night was no exception. I continued my short routine, finishing with an erotic waste bend, running my finger up my leg, and finishing with a dramatic flip my hair, crossing my hands across my chest and then into my hair as I swayed off to the side of the stage. Mia was always after me - she was by far the most popular. As she took her spot, every man in the room sitting forward in their seats, their eyes glued, I relaxed for a moment, leaning my hand against the wall. As much as I enjoyed the spotlight, the darker edges of the stage were a relief when a break was due.

But it appeared not every man in the room was watching Mia. There was one man, scrunched in the corner of a dark booth towards the back of the crowd, who appeared to be looking at ... Me?

"Ellie, I think someone likes you." One of the girls had joined my side, nodding toward the same man whose eyes were peaking out from below his baseball cap. I couldn't see much other than those eyes - his face was cleverly shrouded by the hat and most of his body was shaded by the dark room. But I couldn't stop staring back at him. There was something about those eyes. Was it the desire in them? Were they just incredibly gorgeous eyes? I wasn't sure but they had an effect on my entire body sending chills from the very tips of the hairs on my head all the way down to my toes.

His hand reached briefly into the light to grasp his beer.

Oh God, not the hands. Hands were like a mating call to me. Every man I ever slept with had amazing hands. And this mysterious stranger stroked his beer gently with long and confident fingers, tendons and veins asserting themselves as evidence of his muscular form.

 _Well, that's how I imagined it anyways._

I shuddered unexpectedly - oops, better be careful, I was still on stage. I looked around to verify that there really was no one else watching me. Nope. With Mia in the spotlight, I was on my own. My eyes wandered back to his where I could swear there was evidence of a smile.

 _Was he teasing me?_

"Ellie, snap out of it!" It was Mia. Time to get back on stage for the group number.

 _Oh, I was ready._

To read more of my original work, visit my blog: www dot writers of the rain dot wordpress dot com

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	4. Chapter 3b

I sashayed out there with the confidence of a woman who just eye-fucked Jamie Dornan. I threw myself into the dance, those deep and probing eyes haunting my subconscious. Whoever he was, he was watching, and I was going to give him one hell of a show. Each dancer split off two-by-two. I was with Candy (I know, every strip club has to have one, right?) and I pulled her close, grinding into her leg while one hand pulled at her hair, the other sliding serendipitously down my side, across my flat belly, and softly onto the ties hanging at her hip. She threw her head back at my touch and I followed her lead, leaning my face in near her breasts and licking my lips sensually.

The men (and a few women, actually) went wild. A proud smile flew to Candy's face - she was fairly new and had not received this kind of response before.

 _Oh, we're not done yet, honey. Wait until you see what I have in store for you._

In coordination with the routine, we stood back-to-back, grinding to the floor, then grasping hands desperately, slowly rising back up to stand. I turned to face her back, swept her hair behind her neck, and breathed softly on her skin. My hands grasped daintily the front of her hips and we pulsated backwards in circles to the music, the other girls in perfect time with us. I caressed my hands slowly and carnally up her dark and gorgeous skin until I reached the clasp of her top. I pulled at the strings, sending her cover spiraling to the ground, her engorged breasts shining in the spotlight to hoops and hollers from our heated patrons. I was ad-libbing a little; it was encouraged for this routine and a couple of the girls followed my example much to the pleasure of our audience.

We returned back-to-back again, completing a lascivious body roll. My hands creeped up towards my neck, a look of coy innocence on my face, and I unhooked my own top which fell to my waste.

I swear I could smell the cum emanating from the anxious spectators.

I squeezed my hands down my side, reaching behind my back and releasing the remainder of my top. One more intense body roll and we turned to face each other again. I stole a glimpse into the crowd, hoping to catch sight of my secret admirer, but I couldn't see past the floodlights. God, I hoped he was still there. This was all for his benefit and I imagined those haunting eyes were still burrowing into me with seething pleasure. I imagined he was hard and squirming, barely able to hold himself back from running up here to throw me against the wall and ravish me.

I ground even deeper into Candy than I had before. She responded in kind, our nipples dancing against each other and stimulating is to explore each other with even greater fervor.

I loved the idea that he might be watching us. I could feel my own wetness peaking and I was dying to slip my fingers beneath the fabric of my panties to satisfy my ache. Instead I continued the libidinous molestation of my willing partner, the cheers of the crowd barely audible to my ears while thump of my rapidly pumping blood took over all sensations. The dance finished and we sauntered off-stage, the girls all smiles over the incredible response from our very enthusiastic men. I immediately stole into the dressing room, locking the door and flattening against the wall, my fingers stealing straight for my clitoris, burning and aching. I began my assault with deep circular motions, the intensity rising quickly with images of me straddled across my new lover while his tongue and lips sucked and pinched my nipples.

I came hard, the fingers of my other hand sliding in and out of me with reckless abandon. It took every measure of self-control to avoid crying out - not that it mattered. It wasn't unusual for us ladies to satisfy our needs back here; sometimes together, sometimes alone. But I wanted this moment to be private. I didn't want anyone else to see my vulnerability. I sank to the floor, endorphins racing, satisfaction achieved at long-last. I closed my eyes and considered falling asleep in that very spot. But I resisted; Lap dances were next in the menu and I was likely to be in high demand after that steamy number.

Would he request a lap dance? Suddenly my energy returned and I rushed back out to the platform with a hopeful heart.


	5. Chapter 4

He was gone. When had he left? Did he even see my titillating exhibition? OMG, what if I looked like a total idiot up there, dancing my brains out for some guy who wasn't even watching? No, I didn't look stupid - the applause still ringing in my ears confirmed that.

 _Ok, I've got to stretch my legs. Benches in airports aren't meant to be sat on by girls waiting for mysterious and potentially non-existent boyfriends. As I turn to pick up my purse I feel someone approach me from behind. My legs stiffen and my hands numb. Shit, is this it? I turn slowly, terrified of what I might see._

 _By the way, I know what you're thinking: of course looks aren't the most important thing to me - I'm not that shallow. But is it so bad to hope he might be at least remotely close to the gorgeous image I concocted in my head?_

 _But it isn't him. Of course not, that would be too easy. It's a janitor, gesturing toward my empty paper coffee cup and asking if I've finished. I hand it to him with a grimace, wishing he really was my mystery man - he's not bad looking. And hell, I'd take anyone right now just to know I didn't dream this whole thing up! I pop over to the concourse cafe for another coffee, feeling a little better after I've flirted with the barista. It's now 7pm. He did say the flight leaves at 8:35. I mean, my understanding has always been that it's vitally important to be two hours early for any flight, but maybe he has one of those fancy security passes._

 _Or maybe he has a private jet! I imagine myself walking across the tarmac in the sights of hundreds of passengers, all wishing they were the one approaching the shiny miniature plane of a handsome billionaire. I laugh to myself. I've always had such an active imagination. Plan for the worst, Ellie: boils, bald spot, and a missing eye. Yeah, I'll be ready for that._

 _Of course I know none of that is the case._

 _How, you ask? Well I'm not going to tell you how right now. It'll ruin the rest of the story - and if he really does have a private jet, I've got another hour and half to kill!_

 _Let's get back to the club before you bombard me with any more questions._

Did I mention he wasn't there? Well, he wasn't, the bastard. My disappointment was palpable but palatable. The rest of the evening passed as usual, my momentary spark of excitement and mystery doused, and my professionalism taking up the slack. I returned home that evening exhausted and morose. The problem with moments of elation is the striking emptiness left in their wake.

It was Friday night so it was near 3am when I turned the corner onto Ponderosa Ave and pulled into my driveway. The lights were out in the neighboring town homes, leaving the sidewalk calm and quiet. I stopped to sniff the sweet aroma of the poinsettias by the driveway on my way in as I always did. I unlocked the door and dragged myself lazily up the carpeted stairs, falling asleep just before my head hit the mattress.

 _That's right, bitches, I live in the fucking burbs. You weren't expecting that, were you? I told you I'd be the best in the business, and that means I make some damn good money. More than some of my judgmental neighbors._

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know you don't judge me that way. You're such a sweetheart. I wish I had neighbors so understanding. Of course, they all think I'm a bartender. I mean, come on, admit it: you wouldn't let your kids play in the yard next door to a stripper. It's practically akin to living next to a pedophile_.

 _I don't like the assumptions people make about my career choices. But I've learned to accept them. There are some things in society you can't change. So rather than fighting for something that will never happen, or crying about it behind closed doors, I play the game along with everyone else and just let the world be what it is._

 _And when it gets to be too much, that's when I write. I write about unexpected heroes and conquering underdogs. It's a bit cliché, but I like to give my characters unusual hurdles; ones that might be considered sinful or harrowing to the layman. My protagonists are murderers, prostitutes, and thieves. They do horrible things to supposedly "good" people. It makes me feel better. It reminds me the world isn't always what it seems._

The next day ( _I almost said morning - ha!_ ) my eyes mawed open around noon. I loved waking up at noon. My townhome was angled just right so the sun reflected slivers of light through my blinds and onto the edges of my bed. Something about it was so... Cozy. I didn't move a muscle, but enjoyed the feel of my body gulped into the mattress like mashed potatoes while the sun warmed my arms, and the general feeling of peace after a good night's rest washed over me. I could have lay there forever.

I considered it. But around 12:30 I started getting restless. I hopped off the bed and ran to the shower for my morning meditation. I decided on scrambled eggs and toast for "breakfast" then sat myself judiciously at my desk in the front room, my notes organized, and my laptop awaiting the gentle strokes of my fingers.

I opened the laptop and navigated to a file called "A Ringer's Folly". After a quick scan of my last few paragraphs of work, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my mind and my emotions combust together, whirling and embracing to create an infinite number of colloquial combinations. And then I waited. I waited for the perfect intersection of words, emotion, and style.

My fingers began to move.

 _The darkness fell upon her like the stale breath of an old enemy. Her hands clasped fervently the cold hard fingers of his left hand, squeezing in desperation, willing him to move. The light from the street lamp reflected off the shiny gold finish of his wedding ring. The ache and panic in the pits of her belly rose quickly, screaming at her - commanding her - to take action. Her tears decorated his skin as the body began to stiffen. She didn't have much time. She reached into her purse, pulling free a set of green wire cutters. A few red stains remained splattered on the old and worn tool._

 _She always eyed them fondly when this moment came. It was the most difficult and the most rewarding act of her assault, always filling her with the deepest regret followed by feelings of closeness and acceptance she didn't know in any other context. She aimed the wire cutters around his ring finger, closing her eyes and bracing herself for the sound of snapping bone - that part always made her nauseated. Her prize was wrapped fondly in a handmade handkerchief and tucked lovingly into her bag by the wire cutters. She sat a few minutes longer, feeling the growing absence of warmth in his skin and imagining it filling her, energizing her, embracing her. When there was no life left to revel in, she stole quietly around the ally corner and disappeared inconspicuously into the winter snow._

My hands wouldn't stop for hours. My muse was like a well-oiled machine: pulling fuel from the depths of my soul, siphoning it through the core of my body, and splattering it innocuously all over the screen of my computer. It felt sensual, maybe even spiritual; like conducting electricity. It was the only time I felt more alive than I did on stage. It was the only time it felt like the world aligned perfectly with my body and the 'who' within me to give me strength and purpose.

It was almost five o'clock when my muse dropped to her knees and surrendered for the evening. She had worked so hard; she deserved a break - and a meal! I hadn't noticed how hungry I was! I dashed to the fridge, pulling out bread, lunch meat, mustard, and pickles for a decadent sandwich. I couldn't believe I'd almost forgotten to eat again. I made that mistake one time before work and I paid dearly when I got dizzy and fell into one of the tables at the club, smacking my head on the edge and packing a huge bruise that kept me out of work for three days. The incident was in my amateur days so Randy had considered throwing me out entirely. Once again, I was reminded how lucky I was to have Mia.

I flipped on the TV for a little post-meal news. More in politics - our elections were coming up and the arguments and debates were in full swing. I can't say I followed politics too terribly closely, but there were a few topics about which I was passionate, primarily abortion, gay marriage, gun control and government control. I had built a particularly strong hatred for two political potentials who seemed to be far more popular than I would like. One was a republican, Christian Grey, who fought for all those conservative social values I despised, and the other was a democrat, Brady Boswell, who came from one of those long familial lines of political power that stretched back generations. He was always touting arguments about gun control and bail-outs, blah, blah, blah.

 _I see both sides of the argument on gun control, but trust me, you can't be a stripper and support it. Few of us didn't have a concealed weapons permit; it came with the job._

My brain started to melt from all the political ridiculousness so I switched to a music channel, wiling away my final hour before work watching the amazing Paul Patson strum away at his guitar, singing decadent phrases that could only be written by a poet.

 _Now there's a man I wouldn't mind getting my hands AND brain into._

My soul full from the captivity of my novel and my body nourished, I headed off to work around 8. I waved to the boys playing in the street as I pulled out, wondering if I'd have one of those of my own someday. They smiled politely, though impatiently, anxious to return to their game. There were only a few weeks left of summer and the fall always brought shorter days and earlier cut-off times for their play. They were still young enough to take full advantage of every moment at their disposal and I found myself hoping I hadn't lost that childlike innocence completely. As much as I enjoyed my job, I had a very love/hate relationship with my life; one I wasn't always so sure how to manage. And I ached for the singular focus of a child who never has to consider anything outside of right now.


	6. Chapter 5

Most of the girls were already in the dressing room getting ready when I arrived. I walked in in a daze that was quickly shattered by the gaggle of unique and rambunctious ladies laughing and rushing around to get ready. I loved these girls so much. They were each individuals in their own right and never apologized for their personalities.

 _If there is anything I appreciate about being a stripper, it is the fact that it requires of you the ultimate acceptance of who you are. When few others will accept the real you at face value, that leaves only one person left to take on the challenge, and these girls wear that mantle ferociously. Some of them are egregiously offensive, others stubbornly opinionated, and yet more sweeter than sugar, but they each have their own shade of spark. And despite the sexual nature of our job descriptions, I know that spark is a significant cause of the adoration we receive from the varied men that enter the establishment. After months and months of watching these amazing girls, I've learned first-hand that no matter how blatantly you sex things up, you can't erase the woman behind the hormones. She will always shine through._

The evening started off as energetic and sweaty as ever. We began with our group number after which I took a shift waiting tables and pouring cocktails. Everyone seemed to be in a pretty positive mood when I went on my first break. I popped a piece of gum and sipped a cool glass of water, trying to ignore the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in through the crack in the door. That was Crystal - she smoked enough to give 10 people cancer yet here she stood, alive, and regularly working her cardio like an Olympic gymnast. _Some people get all the good genes._

I closed my eyes for a few minutes, sinking my body slowly into the couch, reveling in the relaxation I knew would be short-lived.

"Ellie! Ellie!" A voice shrieked. My eyes flew open to a bouncy and ecstatic Candy galloping towards me with a goofy grin on her face.

"What? What?" I asked, surprised and more than a little irritated. _What is her deal? She knows how much we value our breaks._ Then I sat up as I recalled her excitement when the city mayor came into our establishment for the first time. "Oh my god, there's a celebrity here, isn't there?" I cried. "Who is it? Where? I get dibs this time, Mia stole the last one!" I was ready to barrel right over Candy but she stopped me.

"No!" She cried, exasperated as she attempted to keep me in place. "There's no celebrity! But it's almost as good." A sheepish grin crept across her face.

I looked at her, puzzled. _What on earth was is talking about? What else could possibly be worth interrupting my rest?_

"It's your boyfriend," she drawled maniacally, "He's here". The confusion on my face persisted. She'd gone mad; everyone knew I didn't have a boyfriend. In fact, Candy had tried to set me up with a friend of hers just a week before.

"You know," she prodded, as if I was to guess exactly what vague idea she had rolling lazily around in that head of hers, "The guy who was watching you? With the baseball cap?"

The realization hit me like a train. My hands flew to my mouth. "Oh my god!" I shrieked. I'd purged him from my mind - written him off as a menstruation-inspired fantasy. But immediately every inch of my body began to tingle just imagining those eyes exploring me. I wanted to see him. I had to see him.

"Where is he?" I begged hastily. Candy shrugged and scrunched her eyebrows in thought.

"Ummmmm…" she mused. Unwilling to wait for her memory to return to her, I stalked back towards the floor. _He's not sneaking off this time._ Crazy as it was, I couldn't stand the thought of him leaving again without a chance to see if what I had experienced was real. As I breezed through the entryway to the floor, Randy grabbed my arm.

"Hey, I have a special job for you."

I barely looked at him, "Not right now, Randy, I have something I have to take care of." He pulled my arm hard, slamming me against the door.

"Not right now, you don't," he insisted, the cheap scotch on his breath invading my nostrils. "I have an important customer and he wants a private dance. From you. He is paying good money to see you so you're doing this. Follow me."

 _Ah fuck. The Pot. He must've snuck in on my break._ I felt my heart sink to my knees. The only thing worse than losing the opportunity to bore my eyes into my obsessive admirer was replacing that blissful anticipation with the morbidity of a private dance for a man I despised.

 _God I hate my job sometimes._

I dejectedly followed Randy to one of the private rooms behind the bar, nodding to the bouncer who would be my only advocate for the next ten minutes. Randy led me into the room, remaining by my side as I took my spot by the pole. _What, does he think I needed babysitting? I've done this before._

"This particular patron has a special request," he stated dispassionately. He held up his hands, atop which rested a long black bandana. This guy had a thing for cowgirls?

 _I can be dense sometimes..._

"He's a very private man," he explained, "we're the only club in town willing to cater to his needs. You will be well compensated as will I."

And with that, he turned me around and proceeded to tie the bandana over my eyes.

 _What. the. actual. fuck._

"Randy, you've got to be fucking kidding me. This is a joke, right?" I spat. "You can't be serious. How am I going to see what I'm doing? What if he tries something?" I was starting to panic; I did not trust this man. And I wasn't just talking about the Pot.

"Fred is looking after you. You'll be fine. I'm sure you can find a way to make this work. It's worth a nice pile of cash to you and a whole lot more to me."

I know Randy has always valued money above all else but it was never a major motivator for me. Still, if I was going to get through this, I knew I'd need an incentive. I took a deep breath andvbegan visualizing what I'd buy with my blind money. A MacBook? Vacation? Add it to my savings?

I let these thoughts distract me as Randy's steps faded away. I was envisioning the upgrades I'd get on my new computer when a whispered conversation took place by the door and a new set of shoes entered the room. The footsteps sounded lighter than I expected, but of course, I'd never done this blindfolded before so the observation was fairly meaningless. I wrapped my hands around the bar, pulling my body into my normal introductory pose.

I stood statuesque until I heard the footsteps stop and the shuffling sounds of a body settle into the chair across from me. I started to move.

 _Huh. This is actually much easier blindfolded._ My signature daydream of Tom Hardy sitting sweaty and glowering in the chair in front of me took over and I swayed into some sensual moves, enjoying the anonymity of my audience more than I expected. Tom was soon replaced with visions of my ball-capped admirer, digging his eyes into me intimately. A picture of my true patron - the Pot - flicked briefly back into my mind. _My brain can be such a jerk sometimes_. I faltered at the image of this massive and dissonant man, scolding myself as I tripped on my heels. The sound of the Pot's shoes rang in my ears as they rapidly moved closer, no doubt to help me.

 _No! Don't touch me!_ I screamed in my mind.

I cringed, resisting, but the hands that took hold of my arms to lift me back to my feet were not the chubby, sweaty, greedy hands I had expected. They were strong and calloused, but gentle.

 _It's not the Pot. Who is it?_

Fred was by my side in a flash, the sound of his heavy breathing all too familiar, ready to haul this man's ass out at my request.

"It's ok, Fred," I said. "This is ok with me."

I listened - no footsteps. He was hesitating.

"Really, Fred, I'm okay."

He sighed. "You let me know the moment you need me". I listened as he retreated to his post by the door.

The patron's hand was still on my arm as I regained focus. In an uncharacteristic act of boldness, I placed my hand on his arm. _I have to know._

I moved my hand up his arm, running my fingers over the muscles and veins protruding from his rough skin. This definitely was not the person I had feared it was. I hesitated as my hand reached his shoulders - this was definitely not included on the "good girl" list of our code of ethics ( _I know - the irony is part of the fun_ ); Randy might yell at me again. But then again, he clearly valued this man in front of me who hadn't moved from his spot since I began my limb groping.

I felt his left hand release my arm and move to my right hand. My left fingers were still gripping his upper arm, subtle flexes of his muscles apparent under my skin as the right side of his body responded to the movement on his left. He grasped my right hand softly, lifting it towards his face and whispered,"Is this okay?".

I nodded. My throat had suddenly been inexplicably incapacitated by a massive lump of nerves. I stood stock still as he brought my hand to his face, leaving it lightly on his stubble. I stroked his chin with my thumb.

He wanted me to know he was not the Pot. How did he know I needed that information? I caressed his face, feeling his eyes, nose and cheeks. I didn't dare touch his lips, desperately though I wanted to. He reached for my hand again, moving it upward to where, finally, I found my fingers resting upon the solid bill of a baseball cap. My heart stopped.

 **My first short story romance is available on Kindle! Look up "Losing You" by P j Haynie on Amazon. www dot amazon dot com slash gp slash product slash B01663N97K**


	7. Chapter 6a

A few swallows. A deep breath. _Keep it together, Ellie._

I could almost feel his smile.

"Everything okay, Nevaeh?" He whispered.

Good God, I loved the way his voice purred my name. He was teasing me, I knew it, but my elation at finding him here in place of my nemesis was far too pleasing for me to care. I smiled and nodded again. He then stroked my face with his hand, my skin glowing at his touch. For a moment, I thought he might remove the blindfold and allow me to finally see him. Oh, I wanted to so badly. But he didn't.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, almost as if he hadn't meant to vocalize it. "Please, keep dancing."

His breathed those words as if he'd just asked me to perform a Beethoven sonata. He stepped back a pace, releasing me. I was a bit uncertain at first. I wasn't used to such a close and, well, presumably attractive audience. But as I worked my way back into my routine, my instincts took over. I worked the pole like a sex toy, rolling my pelvis up and down, throwing my hand out, ruffling my hair, and enjoying every minute of it. I peeled my clothes off one by one, keeping a torturously slow rhythm to draw out his excitement. I wanted so badly for him to be rock hard.

My pulse was pumping. I could feel my groin swelling. I wanted to touch him so badly.

And then my moment came. I felt him step close to me again, this time more cautiously. He didn't move; I knew he was waiting my permission. He was standing just inches behind me so I reached my hand back, groping for his. When I found it, I placed it lightly on my hip, just overtop my g-string, and repeated the action with his other hand. I could hear his breathe take, his fingers twitching nervously. And then I began to move.

He moved with me - quite impressively actually. Some men have a really hard time with smooth, sexy movements - instead they rock their hips like they're doing an amateur robot dance - but his movements were fluid and oh, so sensual. I drank in the feel of his fingers at my hips. My observation from the stage the other night had been correct: they were strong and slender, though somewhat insecure. I couldn't blame him for that. Men had been kicked out indefinitely for this before. But I had worked with Fred for a while and he knew I'd signal if things got out of hand.

My admirer pulled me closer against his body so I could feel the pleasure of his enjoyment. I ground into him, low and deep. He followed me down, his breath on my neck as we rose back up. I could feel his nose nuzzling my hair, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize the scent. We continued to rub against each other, each movement more intimate than the last. His hands crawled slowly up my hips to my bare belly as we danced. His pinkie finger slipped discreetly into my belly button, giving me a little tickle. I giggled.

"I've been wanting to touch that belly button," he whispered and I could tell he was smiling. How adorable: a belly button enthusiast.

"I wish I could return the favor," I mewed, almost too caught up in the moment to finish the phrase. I pushed back from the pole, bending at the waste and reaching for the floor, my butt still grinding at his pelvis. God, it was so much fun.

He laughed. "I wouldn't have taken you for a twerker."

He rested his index finger at the top of my spine at the base of my neck and trailed it softly down each vertebra until he reached the edge of my g-string. He traced the lace back around to my belly, pulled me in even tighter than before, and then we were rolling with each other again. His hands rubbed me more deeply this time, tracing a pattern from my hips to my underarms and back again. I wanted him to reach for more but I knew he wouldn't. I don't know how I knew - call it instinct - but I was right. He didn't stray into any clothed territory.

I knew our time was drawing short. I turned to face him and ran my hands up his arms and across his chest. Oh Lord, he was in great shape. His hand cupped my face and for a moment I thought he might kiss me. The thought excited and terrified me in equal measure. I placed my hand softly over his. I ran my fingers over his skin, coming across an unexpected stump and the end of his middle finger. My forehead crinkled in confusion as I rubbed my fingers over the end to confirm that the tip - from the third knuckle up - was indeed missing.

"Steel mill accident," he whispered. I nodded. So he's an industrial worker. _He must own the steel mill,_ I thought. _Can't afford this kind of entertainment on a layman' salary_.

His hand withdrew from my face. I could feel him moving away, but this time not towards his seat.

He was heading for the door.

 _No! No! What if he leaves and I never see him again?_ I panicked.

"Who are you?" I croaked. I could've stabbed myself in the throat for how ridiculous my voice sounded.

He stiffened under my grip. I heard a sigh - not a sigh of defeat but one of frustration. He didn't move for a minute. Two minutes. He squirmed awkwardly. Three minutes.

"Please," I begged. I knew it would take weeks to mentally let go of him if I didn't get this chance to find out who he was.

Another pause.

He removed my hand from his arm, giving it a squeeze before letting it fall to my side.

"I'm sorry," he ached, whispering almost inaudibly. I could feel the pain in his voice. _What on earth is that about?_

And then he left. Just like that. My heart thumped harder than ever as his footsteps faded and then disappeared completely behind the sound of the shutting door.

I was flabbergasted. _What? What was that? WHO was that?_

 _What the fuck just happened?_

 **My short story romance is up on Amazon, along with the link to the FREE Indie Pop title track! Here's the link: www dot amazon dot com/Losing-You-P-j-Haynie-ebook/dp/B01663N97K**

 **Or just search for "Losing You" by P j Haynie**

 **If you'd like a free copy, just email me at pjhaynie at yahoo dot com and I'll send it right over!  
**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 6b

I sank to the floor. I felt defeated. Maybe even a little silly. _Of course he wasn't going to tell me who he was, why else would he have required I be blindfolded? But why did he leave so suddenly? What in god's name was he sorry about?_

 _Did I just run him off forever?_

My audience vacated, I removed my blindfold and headed towards the door to face the rest of the evening. As I walked out I came face-to-face with Randy.

 _Aw, fuck, he's probably pissed._

But to my surprise, he smiled.

"Very nice, Nevaeh!" He congratulated. "I've got some cash for you before you leave. You'll want to take it straight to the ATM, if you know what I mean."

I feigned a smile and tried to remind myself of the silver lining.

"Look, you've done great tonight, why don't you handle the bar for the rest of the evening? The tips are decent tonight and you won't have to dance for your buddy over there." I glanced over to see the Pot. So he _was_ there. He flashed me a hideous smile and I raced to the bar with intense relief. _Silver lining indeed!_

Crystal accosted me halfway there.

"Nevaeh, how was it? Tell me all about it! Did you see him? What does he look like? Did he get your number? Are you gonna go out with him?" This girl was so naive sometimes.

I groaned, "Let me get to the bar and then I'll fill you in." I threw on an apron, excused Rain back to the dance floor, and turned back to an eager and anxious Crystal.

"It's no big deal," I muttered. "I had to wear a blindfold so I didn't see him. And he left early. So I don't really know what that whole thing was all about."

I didn't want her to know the intimate details of our encounter. It would only prompt more questions and plus... I kind of liked it being my own little secret.

Crystal's face fell as if I'd just revealed that Santa Claus isn't real. "What?" she cried in my defense, "Blindfolded? Are they allowed to do that? Why did he leave? What are you going to do? What if he doesn't come back?"

I massaged my temples; I didn't have the patience for this. "Crystal, I'm fine, just get back to work, okay, we've got customers waiting." I turned my back on her to fill cocktails and she slinked back to the floor.

At closing time I was one of the last to leave. I was okay with that. I wanted to keep my mind busy and going home early would have thwarted that plan. Mia was the only other dancer left, off flirting with Randy somewhere. I really didn't understand what she saw in him. I guess he had some redeemable moments - he did seem legitimately grateful this evening. Maybe he was under more stress than I realized.

I finished sweeping, changed back into my jeans and t-shirt, and opened the back door, ready to head out to the far lot across the street where employees where required to park. The evening would be peaceful anywhere else, but the poorly lit streetlights casting nebulous shadows across the alleyway behind the club always squashed any feelings of security that might give way to enjoyment of the deep night sky. I took a step into the alley. Something flashed out if the corner of my eye. My eyes raced to catch sight of a shadow that I thought had flickered around the side of the building.

Nothing.

I reached my hand in my bag and gripped tightly the ridiculously stupid little girly gun I had bought. We all had one of these for our own protection. Randy insisted on it and in that moment I felt grateful; perhaps he did care just a little bit. But I also felt a tinge of regret: I'd much rather have been holding the cold steel of a Glock G43. It would have made me feel much safer and welding it would feel much more natural should it come to that.

I took a couple more cautious steps toward the corner, angling my direction outward to avoid any surprises. My father's hunting training was finally paying off. A moment's pause to listen for movement...still nothing. There was a teeny tiny part of me that hoped it was my ball-capped stalker. But the more practical side of my brain knew the more likely scenario was that a desperate and insecure admirer with a lack of patience for the word "no" was waiting despondently for me. I took another step forward just to be sure...

 _I think I'm just going to stop there. Yeah, that's a good place, right?_

 _Oh get over yourself! I've been sitting with my ass on this hard bench for over an hour now, I'm hungry, over-coffee'ed, pissed off, and frankly ready to graduate from over-caffeinated hot beverages to more adult fare. Trust me, this story will get waaaaaaaaaaay more interesting once I have a fucking margarita in my hand (okay, that is the FOURTH TIME my auto-correct has tried to replace the word "fucking" with "ducking". Haven't you figured it yet, stupid phone? I cuss like a ducking sailor! Accept it and move on!)._

 _I stand up, just a little bit wobbly from all the caffeine, and waddle my way over to the nearest bar. I order a margarita on the rocks from the cute bartender and I'm half-tempted to ask him if I can have him on the side. But I resist. I'm not quite prepared to tell a sex story in the present tense._

 _Don't pretend you wouldn't like it, ladies._

 _I take a sip. And another. Maybe a couple more. Aaaaaaaaah._

 _Ok, girls, NOW we can really get into the good stuff!_

There was no one there, by the way. At least not that I could see. _Disappointed, are you? I'm very flattered that you're so anxious to see me flogged and dragged away by a complete stranger, really I am, but you'll forgive me for not throwing my life at the feet of a crazed and horny psycho for your own personal entertainment._

 _Wait, hang on, I'm a stripper... Okay, you win this time._

Anyways, Mia and Randy came stumbling out the club door next, laughing raucously. I thought I caught a shadowy movement by the building again, but it's hard to say. Whoever it was no doubt ran off at the sight of potential witnesses. As usual, Randy started yelling at me.

"Ellie, what the fuck are you doing out here by yourself?". He only calls me "Ellie" when he's REALLY pissed. Sort of the pimp's version of the parental full-name scolding, if you will. "You know the rules, you always leave in pairs. Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be this time of night?"

I looked at Mia, hoping for some defense but she just shrugged. "He's got a point" she seemed to say.

I didn't really have a defense either, unfortunately.

"Since you clearly have no fucking concern for your own safety, from now on you will check in with me before you leave." Despite his anger, I sensed a tone of authentic concern in his voice. I'd never noticed this before. Was this new? My forehead crinkled in grateful recognition of his kindness. He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm liable for each one of you, okay? If any of you gets hurt in my watch, it's my ass on the line."

It was kinda cute watching him attempting to recover from his brief revelation of vulnerability. I suppressed a giggle and winked at Mia. "Now come on, we'll walk you to your car."

I headed home while Mia and Randy walked from my car to the bus stop, hand-in-hand. They really were quite good for each other. It would take a certain kind of person to see past the mask Randy put on - a facade I was still trying to understand - and no one more up to the task than the indomitable Mia.

I threw my hair back in a ponytail and navigated to the main thoroughfare for the drive to my warm, inviting, and most importantly deranged-customerless neighborhood.

 **My short story romance is up on Amazon, along with the link to the FREE Indie Pop title track! Here's the link: www dot amazon dot com/Losing-You-P-j-Haynie-ebook/dp/B01663N97K**

 **Or just search for "Losing You" by P j Haynie**

 **If you'd like a free copy** **, just email me at pjhaynie at yahoo dot com and I'll send it right over!**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 7a

I stood nervously on the porch, meticulously dressed to perfection in a cute but modest sundress, flats, and a headband. I clutched my bowl of potato salad, scraping my fingernails on the hard plastic to distract my mind from my nerves. Footsteps approached the door. I took a deep breath.

"Just hang in there, relax, and don't cuss," I reminded myself.

The door flew open.

"Auntie Ellie!" A small blonde girl with braces and a really cute dress ( _seriously, where did she get it, I want one!)_ threw her arms around me in an enthusiastic embrace. I laughed, returning her hug as best I could while balancing my dinner contribution.

"Ellie, hi!" Another smiling face appeared behind the girl.

"Hi mom," I said, barely masking my anxiety. I grabbed my niece's small hand and stepped inside to hug my mother. I caught a glimpse of my dad in the backyard, taking advantage of one last opportunity to use his new grill. Another little toddler boy was wandering around the backyard near my sister-in-law, wobbling like a drunken sailor. My brother was likely not far away. My mom invited me in, wiping her hands on her apron and requesting my help with the salad.

 _God my family is so fucking traditional._

 _Ok, this might be a good time for some background. In case you didn't guess, this was my family. My parents, still married (I have to mention that because, let's face it, it's just not very common anymore), and me and my baby brother. My brother got married young to a crazy psycho-bitch born-again Christian - my parents adore her, of course - and they have an 8-year-old girl and a 2-year-old boy. Both kids are adorable and SO much fun to be around…when I get to be around them, that is. You'll understand what I mean here in a minute._

I walked through the finely decorated and spotless living area into the kitchen. You'd hardly know there was any cooking going on. Every dish was perfectly spaced, the counters clean, and bowls of sides and toppings were laid out on the clothed kitchen table with the organization of a game of Tetris. I poked my head out the back door and nodded hello to my lovely sister-in-law, Jenny. She gave me a genuine smile followed by frantic eye movement towards the house to determine where her kids were.

 _No, I did not set up a stripper pole in the living room for your kids to play on..._

 _Yet..._

"Tommy's over by the garden," she explained, knowing as well as I did that we'd both rather pass the time swimming in mud-encrusted elephant dung than spend more than two minutes together. I snuck around to the side of the house, tip-toeing (as if it mattered in the grass). Tommy was facing away from me, examining the garden. Oh I had him good! I snuck up behind him and threw myself on his back, almost sending him barreling into the tomatoes.

"Ellie! It's about fucking time!" he cried, laughing and wrestling me to the ground. God it was nice to have at least one person here I could be myself with.

"Watch your mouth, young man!" I scolded. "Or no potato salad for you!"

He laughed again. "In that case: fuck, fuck, the fucking fuckers."

I cringed at the thought of his wife overhearing him, but at the same time, I kind of hoped she did. It was about time she let my baby brother just be who he is. He dragged me to my feet and pulled me in for a big hug.

"Goddamnit, how long has it been since you visited? Those guys at the club must really like you for some reason."

I gave him a sturdy punch in the shoulder. "At least someone likes me," I teased. "Where's Dad? He was by the grill when I came in..."

"He probably stepped into 'the lieu'," he smirked. _Oh dear._ Mom and dad had taken a trip to Paris for their anniversary and, ever since, Dad had taken to calling everything by its French name. His way of bringing home a souvenir, I suppose? We headed back around the house to the grill. My dad stepped out of the house looking very pleased with his smoking pile of meat. I gave him a hug and let him give me a tour of the various types of juicy flesh we had waiting for us for dinner.

I sat on one side of the table next to my niece, Kendra. Opposite me were Tommy and Jenny with Mom and Dad bringing up the ends of the table and my nephew, Scott, making a mighty beautiful mess on the tray of his high chair off to Jenny's left. In front of me lay the juiciest most succulent burger I'd ever seen.

"You truly are an artist, Dad." I complimented. A proud grin overtook his face.

"Allons-y" he said. Several pairs of eyes rolled, I won't admit whether or not my mother's was one of them...

I didn't get home-cooked meals too often. I made good enough money that I could eat out most meals and I typically only kept snacks and sandwich fixings around the house. A nice juicy non-fast food burger was a welcome entrant to my vacant belly. I savored every bite as Tommy went on about his work at the engineering firm and dad drawled on about the trip to Paris.

 **For more romance and adventure stories, follow my blog! www dot writers of the rain dot wordpress dot com**


	10. Chapter 7b

I didn't finish my burger. I couldn't. Not that I didn't want to, but I could only imagine the discomfort the following day of trying to pull myself up and down a pole with a huge burger digesting in the pits of my bowels... No. Just half. _The pitfalls of being a stripper_.

"I'm looking forward to voting for Christian Grey," my dad continued as my attention veered back to the dinner conversation. "We need someone like him in office to clean things up." Jenny and mom both nodded in agreement.

"He's such a nice looking man, too." My mom giggled.

I huffed, "Oh come on, mom, really? You're going to choose your political candidates based on looks?" I teased.

She returned a laugh. "Well, can you even imagine having to look at Boswell's face every day? We'd lose political interest on that fact alone!"

We all laughed and Jenny launched into a speech about her support of Grey's social politics. Tommy nodded in agreement even though I knew he didn't agree - actually he didn't really care much for politics in general. Which was probably a good thing for the sake of their relationship.

"You can really tell an honest candidate by the way they carry themselves," Dad commented, his eyes on me. He knew I was his only opposition in the room. He desperately wanted me to see things his way. "Grey speaks openly and carries himself with class. Boswell, on the other hand, gives me the distinct impression that he's hiding something."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But the real mark of a good candidate, is the role of their spouse." Jenny's ears perked up. "Look at Boswell's wife - she's involved in his campaign, giving speeches, writing books, and speaking intelligently on the subject of politics. She doesn't just stand there and daintily applaud her husband; she gets involved with his campaign and causes she cares about."

My dad shifted uncomfortably in his chair. My mom had been a stay-at-home mom most of her life so I knew this was a point of contention. But they knew I supported her fully, and anyways this conversation wasn't about her - it was about politics.

"Look at Grey's wife - actually, it's hard to look at her because she's never around. She's completely uninvolved and uninterested in what happens in her own town. And he's clearly never asked her to share her opinion on any prevailing issues. He shuts her away behind a locked door."

"Sometimes moms have more important things to focus on," Jenny suggested, gesturing towards her kids.

I nodded. "Perhaps. But they don't have any kids. So where does that leave her?"

An uncomfortable silence ensued. I decided to round off my end of the discussion. "Well, anyways, I don't think there exists an honest politician in the first place, so I'm not sure it even matters who gets elected," I joked.

"Speaking of dirty politicians!" Tommy piped in with a political joke he'd read on Facebook and the conversation moved on to other things, namely Tommy's recent promotion and Kendra's first days of 2nd grade.

"Sounds like things are going very well for you, Tommy," mom cajoled. She turned to me. "How are things going for you, Ellie? How is...um, well..."

Her eyes darted around the room nervously, desperately seeking some subject she could ask me about that wouldn't make her look like a judgmental ass. Too late. Flustered, she finally blurted out "how are things at the house?"

 _Sigh_. It was like this every time. But my family weren't ones to attack a subject head-on so it was difficult to try to discuss their discomfort with my career decisions in any productive terms. The topic would typically change very quickly and very acutely.

"Things at work are fine, mom," I finally gave in. I couldn't do it anymore. _For God's sake, it's just a job._ "I got to give the mayor a lap dance this week," I announced with an overly-enthusiastic smile. "Quite the squirmy guy for a married republican! Had no idea his interests were so diverse."

Jenny choked on her burger. Mom and Dad froze. Tommy started laughing.

"I knew it!" He cried. "That rat bastard, not a word of truth comes out of his mouth." Jenny kicked him under the table. He always enjoyed my unexpected and inappropriate dinnertime commentary. I picked up my plate and walked it to the sink, enjoying the heat from my parents' embarrassment radiating into the back of my head.

 _Yeah, ok, I probably went a little far. But there's really only so much condescension and intolerance I can handle. This is my fucking life. Deal with it or disown me._

When I sat back down, Mom and Dad had started to recover but Jenny was glowering at me.

"Kendra," She commanded, eyeing her daughter sitting next to me, "Come sit over here by mommy."

"But I'm not done - " Kendra wined.

"Now."

Kendra picked up her plate and moved around the table.

I scoffed. "Come on, Jenny, are you serious? Stripping isn't contagious, you know."

"You can't talk about stuff like that around kids," she seethed, her hands covering Kendra's ears. "I won't have her exposed to your...your filth."

"Jenny, I can only say this so many times before I lose hope that you will ever understand: my work and my life with my family are separate things. I will never reveal the gory details of my work with your kids and I will never ask you to come for a friendly visit with me and my whores."

"Don't say that word!" She cried, standing in protest, increasing her grip on Kendra's ears so that she cried out. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "If you only knew how badly you need Jesus in your life..."

I made a big display of rolling my eyes. Jenny jumped to her feet. "Tommy, it's time to go. Ellie, I've had enough disrespect - stay away from my kids, please, until you can learn to clean up that mouth."

My face flushed red with embarrassment and horror. "Excuse me? I'm their aunt! What on earth could I do to them that would be so bad?"

"I will pray for you," was her only response. She exchanged a knowing glance with Mom.

"You know what? No." I protested. "I'll leave. Clearly you're not the only one who's not comfortable having me here." I glared at my parents as I collected my potato salad. They stared into their plates as I stormed out.

I got about halfway down the driveway when I heard Tommy behind me.

"Ellie! For gods sake, wait!"

"I don't want to hear you defend her," I moaned. "How on earth did you end up married to that bitch anyways? She has no right! I've been nothing but wonderful to those kids." I choked on the last word as tears snuck their way out of my eyelids and onto my cheeks.

"Come on, Ellie, you know how she is," Tommy sighed. "She's just angry, she'll get over it. I'll talk to her later. Just please don't be mad. She doesn't mean it. If you guys would just try for one fucking second to try to understand…"

"I am not the problem here, Tommy. Don't even go there right now. I love you, Tommy, and I love the kids, but..."

"I know..." He conceded.

"I can only handle so much berating and insults. I don't know what to do anymore..." I trailed off. I just wanted to leave; to go home and curl up on my soft bed and pretend I had no family at all.

"I'll talk to her, okay? I promise. Just don't be mad at me."

"I could never be mad at you." I gave him a warm sisterly hug. "Now get back in there and clean up my mess. You've always been good at that."

He smirked and ran back inside as I slumped into my car and tore off towards home.

At least I had Tommy.


	11. Chapter 8a

Well, it hadn't exactly been a good week. Sunday was the family my-daughter-is-a-slut disaster and Monday was booked solid with my recovery from said disaster - mostly consisting of a very long run, music videos on YouTube, and lots of writing. I tried to watch TV but the political propaganda was NOT something I had patience for. If I had to see the face of Smith Anderson one more time I was going to yack.

Of course, and perhaps ironically, I couldn't escape politics at work either. I walked in Tuesday evening - typically a slow night for us - to a few girls yacking on about abortion in the dressing room.

 _You might think strippers would be fairly liberal across the board, but we're not as easy to pinpoint as you'd think._

Candy and Priscilla were having a riveting and rather divisive conversation.

"I just think it's up to girls to be responsible and not get fucked up," Candy said. "And if you do, then you take responsibility for it. We shouldn't be able to just abort a baby whenever the hell we want to."

"Where do you get the idea that women just stop off for an abortion on the way to the nail salon?" Priscilla countered. "Abortions are painful both physically and emotionally and nobody LIKES the idea of stopping a potential life. But you have to see it for what it is: a POTENTIAL life. It's not a person yet."

"According to who?" Candy argued. "It's been shown that there is no specific time when a baby becomes an official person. So it's really a person from the moment it's created."

I was kind of proud of Candy. She wasn't the most eloquent or intelligent girl but she seemed to be paying attention to the arguments.

"Well," Priscilla continued, "then I think it's left to the person carrying it to make that distinction. It's still a part of a woman's body until it's born."

They continued on for a few more minutes while I put my things in my locker. Despite years of frustration playing middleman at home, I still couldn't resist an opportunity to be a peacemaker. So I butted in.

"Look, you guys both have good points. I'm not sure that women shouldn't consider another life even if it happens to be growing inside them - that's just how nature works. It doesn't necessarily mean we get to own that life, at whatever point we consider it one. But, in my opinion, it all comes down to who makes the decision."

They both looked at me curiously. They knew a speech was coming. Candy didn't look thrilled, but Priscilla knew I was likely on her side. She crossed her arms with a smirk and waited patiently.

"Candy, even most conservatives believe there are situations where having an abortion could be the right choice, much as we all hate it, right? Situations of rape, incest, health risks, etc?"

She nodded.

"Well, who do you trust more to be the final determinant of which situations merit an abortion? A politician? A lawyer? A doctor to whom a young girl might not even feel comfortable confessing her rape? An objective third party who might think that her lack of physical bruises means she consensually had sex with her attacker? Or do we trust women to make the final call? I personally am in the latter camp. Yes, there will be those who will make this decision irresponsibly - that's reality. But do we really have so little trust in women as a gender that we would rather have someone, most likely a male considering our current political and commercial environment, who knows nothing of her heart or her circumstances to make that call? I sure as hell don't."

I was getting a bit heated; I felt passionate about this topic. I'd never had an abortion myself but a dear friend of mine in high school did and I could only imagine the emotional and physical scars she'd have if she had had to take her situation to a courtroom with her father – who also happened to be the father of her baby. The thought made me want to vomit.

Candy looked at the floor. "I don't know, I still think babies are too precious. Their lives can't be left to the decision of one person."

I could understand that. Candy had a little one at home. A little one she fought tooth and nail to support.

"I get it." I offered. "And I don't know that I'm right. There's rarely a perfect solution. But just consider what you'd want your own daughter to have to go through if she ever had to make this decision? Would you really want strangers with a piece of signed paper saying they're an 'expert' getting involved?" She shrugged. "Well, I don't know. Something to think about anyways."

I decided to toss the topic aside - I didn't like making people uncomfortable. "We've got to get ready anyways. How is your daughter doing these days, Candy?" She perked up and dove into stories of first words and baby giggles as we pulled on our glittery g-strings. Priscilla gave me a wink as she headed towards the floor to stretch.

As things wound down to a close at the end of the night, I was in good spirits. The clientele had been enjoyable and respectful that night, the tips were great, and I hadn't thought about my family or my frustratingly fascinating ball-capped friend since I had arrived. Mia, Randy, and I were left to close up for the night.

"Girls, I'm sorry but I have to ask you a favor." Randy was standing sulkily by the stage after finishing up the evenings financial records. "I've got to meet my ex-wife early to pick up my daughter. It would be best if I looked mildly human when I do that so I need to get some sleep."

Mia looked disappointed but piped in. "Go ahead, Randy, we can finish up here. "

He nodded. "Just please, please promise me you will both leave the club together?" he pleaded. "And Ellie, give Mia a ride home. It's late for her to be walking to the bus stop."

I nodded with a smile. He rarely called me by my real name when he wasn't yelling at me. He gave Mia a grateful look and skipped out to the back room. Mia and I got the main room picked up, organized, and wiped down. She then turned to me with the same hopeful look I'd just seen on Randy's face. I rolled my eyes - I knew what was coming.

"Can you finish up, Ellie? Please? I'm exhausted."

"It's fine, go," I caved. "I only have the bar left to wipe down anyways. But be careful. Randy will be super pissed if anything happens to you."

"You do the same, Ellie," she warned. And then she was gone too.

Half an hour later, the sticky bar finally bleached and smooth again, I stole back to the dressing room and threw on my jeans, ready for my own repose as well. I stopped back into the club to flick the lights out, then jogged through the dressing one more time, out the door, and into the cool night air. September. The temperature was always perfect this time of year. Not too hot, not too cold – a rarity for Fargo, especially at this time of night. And not a sound to be heard. It was cathartic.

I turned to lock the door. Something stirred behind me. _I thought Mia went home?_

And just like that I was spun around and slammed up against the door, an unwelcome chubby face staring me down with hedonistic pleasure.

"Well hello Ms. Tits. I've missed you."

 **How's that for a cliffhanger? If you'd like to be added to my email list, drop me a note at pjhaynie at yahoo dot com. I send emails about once a month to announce a new publication or share my book promotions and news.**


	12. Chapter 8b

I buoyed up my strength, shoving and flailing to get the 350-lb mass of sweaty skin off me but I was pinned tight. After all the working out I did to stay in shape for this job, and I couldn't even budge a man who clearly hadn't exercised a day in his life? _Mother Nature is such an ass._

"Get the fuck off me!" I screamed.

The Pot just laughed. "Ain't no one gonna hear you out here, missy. And anyone who does won't give a damn." He shoved himself harder against me, his face moving centimeters from mine, his tongue tasting the tip of my nose.

"Didn't you get enough last time?" I cried in disgust. "What the hell do you want?"

He paused as I shut my eyes and squirmed as far away from his face as I could. He released a sigh that was sickeningly satisfied.

"I like it when you struggle," he breathed, his eyes rolling back in his head with pleasure. So that was it. The bastard liked torturing women. Well this wasn't going to end well. He slipped his hand beneath my g-string.

"Look," I suggested, trying to keep my cool, "let's just go inside. There's more room in there. I'll do whatever you want me to."

He laughed heartily, spittle shooting out from his fat lips and landing on the cringing skin of my face. "No, this is how I want you." He inhaled sensually. "Right here, on the dirty sidewalk, squirming and screaming... Begging me..." He expired again, shivering at his imaginary orgasm. "...covered in nothing but me and the filth of your livelihood."

I was going to pass out. Seriously. The smell of his putrid sweat, the ambient light from the one bulb hanging loosely over the club door, the suffocation of his body cutting off my circulation... _Maybe this is a good thing,_ I thought. _If he likes a fight, I certainly can't fight passed out._ I waited for my knees to buckle.

My eyes flew open as a loud bang filled my ears. I knew that sound. I saw his eyes widen in shock. His hold on me eased immediately and he convulsed as he dragged me beneath him to the ground. He was completely limp. If I'd had my sense of humor with me at the time I'd have enjoyed the irony, but as it was, I was a panicked. The shear weight of his person held me prisoner. I couldn't move him anymore now than I could when he was muscling me up against the wall. I pushed on his chest, becoming more confused and disoriented by the second. My hand slipped and squished against something wet. Something red.

 _Oh._

 _Shit._

"Ellie! Oh my god, are you okay?" I couldn't see much but I knew Mia's voice like the back of my hand. _I thought she had left?_

I grunted in response, my breath coming in small spurts.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..." She muttered as she yanked and pulled at the Pot. Blood was staining my clothes and I wasn't coherent enough to aid in my own rescue.

"Just get him the fuck off me!" I cried, tears starting down my cheeks in droves. Mia pulled and tugged but didn't quite have the strength to handle the huge man on her own. It occurred to me that if I was ever going to get out of this, I'd have to find some presence of mind somewhere. I focused hard, mustering every ounce of strength I could find in every available crevice of my body. Mia counted to three and I heaved all my strength against the Pot.

It was just enough. He rolled off me and I staggered, relieved but terrified, to my feet. I backed up against the club door, my head shaking.

"Is he...did you.. I- He- Mia, what the fuck?"

My hands held my face in a desperate ache to understand what I had just lived through. The shock coursing through my body disabled my ability to care about the blood streaking through my hair as I rabidly tugged at it.

Mia was surprisingly calm. "Come on. We have to figure out a way to get rid of the body."

 _What? Get rid of the body? What, she thinks we're criminals?_

"Mia," I stuttdered. "Come on, he attacked me. Let's just call the police. Fuck..." I caught sight of a small bubble of blood emanating from the gun shot wound in his back. The sight made me sick.

 _Sick. Oh shit._ My body prepared to vomit.

Mia shot me a piercing look. "Don't you dare get sick, Ellie. You keep your shit together. Now. We can't leave any evidence, goddamnit."

I didn't move. I wasn't sure I remembered how.

"Ellie! Wake the hell up!" She was shaking me now. "This happened, get over it. Focus on what we have to do next. Just like the time you had to dance for him - just... pretend you're in a movie, remember?"

 _A movie. Yeah, a movie. Ok, I can do that._ I looked around nervously, desiring to be an aid rather than a liability. But my mind was blank. I had no idea what to do.

"The trash can!" Mia announced. She pointed straight across from the club door where one of those huge green city trash cans sat. "Come on, we have to get him into it."

She was crazy. I knew it. This whole fucked up situation was crazy. We barely got the guy off me; how on God's green earth were we going to lift him into a trash can? I held my ground, shaking my head vigorously.

"We can't..." I mumbled. I was starting to shake. I suddenly felt irritatingly cold. Like a fever had spread through my limbs, weakening me and strangling me. My breath quickened.

Something changed on Mia's face. Something I'd never seen before. Her jaw set, her back straightened, and her face turned fierce. Her blurry profile walked back towards me and looked me point blank in the eye.

"Ellie. If you don't get your shit together now, we are going to end up in prison. Don't you remember Hannah? They said she asked for it. The law gives zero fucks about strippers. So you either bitch and whine your way home like a little baby girl while I clean up your mess, or you get your fucking feet on the ground, grow the fuck up, and grow a fucking vagina."

The final blow was too much. My brain switched frequencies. Everything went blank. Again. But in a different way. I lost track of all thought or fear and became hyper-focused. My nerves jumped alive as adrenaline began to pump through my veins once more.

And all I can remember after that is black.


	13. Chapter 9

Muddy Heels has officially been picked up by a publisher and is now available on Amazon! For this reason, I can't continue the story here, however if you'd like to find out how things turn out for Ellie and her mystery man, you can pick up the book at this link:

www dot amazon dot com/Stripped-Muddy-Heels-Jayne-Dixon-ebook/dp/B01KXXYCSO

Thanks so much for reading and being such loyal supporters! I would never have been able to cross into the real-world of publishing without all of you!

Also, if you were following Bloody Heels here (the sequel), I will still be emailing chapters out to those who want to receive them. If that's you, just email me at pjhaynie yahoo dot com and I'll add you to the list!

Thanks!


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